Gordy on WalkaboutChapter 19 Moree to Canberra
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Nothing I Can Do About It NowChapter 2 free porn video
As I remember, to start with it was like all the other Fridays when I’d just returned from one of the regular foreign trips, that I had to make on behalf of my employers. Sweet-talking trips, that’s what they were really. The company liked to call them planning or liaison visits, but the whole point of the exercise was to keep our local agents happy and show them that we hadn’t forgotten about them, or their customers. Oh - and to chivvy the lazy buggers along a bit as well.
These visits called for us - my little team and me - to be introduced to a few of the agent’s better customers and even take some of them out to lunch or dinner in the evenings. On the whole a pretty hectic few days, where most of the conversations we had were conducted in broken English or through interpreters. Part of my contract was to make those trips about eight or ten times a year, normally flying out on the Sunday evenings and returning back to the UK on an overnight flight, arriving at Heathrow reasonably early on the Friday morning.
Then it was usually straight to the office for a debrief session with the Big Cheese, before going home for a nice long weekend with the family. Rarely did any of the three of us, Ralph, Shirley or myself, return to the office until the following Wednesday. It was one of the perks we got for undertaking these unbelievably tedious trips. It wasn’t like we were selling anything on our trips - except for the company itself - selling was the local agents’ job; ours was to show interest in the clients, kiss-arse and smile a lot.
That particular month was always going to be a bugger and we knew it. It was really unusual for us to have two excursions come up in one month, but because of some last minute rescheduling of one of our trips – due to local elections in some place or the other I believe – we were taking two trips within three weeks of each other. We were going to be in the UK for only two weeks before we were due in Japan, Taiwan and ... er, someplace else! Yeah well, I didn’t do the planning, my job was to look important, kiss the aforementioned arses and kick the agents’ bums.
Anyway when I think back now, that particular trip, our arrival in the UK had been slightly different from usual. That difference being that, for some reason, the customs guys at Heathrow had pounced on my luggage with a vengeance that I could never recall them showing before. Even the emigration blokes had asked for and scrutinised my passport, to a totally unexpected degree. I’d seen people get pulled to one side before and had the odd unpleasant experience at foreign airports myself on several occasions, but it was the first time I’d gone through the full rigmarole myself at a UK airport.
One guy in particular really got my goat; he kept staring at me, then gazing at his computer screen and my passport. Apparently comparing a picture he had on that screen with the one on my passport and ... well me. You know I got the feeling at one time that the buggers were going to strip search me. But then, quite suddenly - after the other guys had asked me a lot of stupid questions about where I’d been and why – the guy sat by the computer - who had remained silent through the whole charade – gave me my passport back and another guy told me I could go on my way.
I’ll be honest I was a little more than pissed-off and took note of a few names, because I was planning on making an official complaint to the powers that be when I got to the office.
Anyway, I’d just returned to my office from the conference room after telling the boss’s that everything was tickety-boo with the Malaysian and Singapore operations. I was running a little late because I’d been asked to stay a couple of minutes after the meeting to be congratulated separately for my good work and to be offered a nice little promotion to boot, albeit with the proviso that I agreed to continue to go on those little junkets, several times a year. It was apparent to the “Powers That Be” that - for some inexplicable reason –I was a hit with quite a few of the company’s far eastern end-users.
I can’t really think why. I hated the bloody trips and just about everything about them, especially the food. Can I help it, if I’m a conservative eater and prefer plain old-English roast or fish-’n’-chips? Perhaps the buggers liked laughing at my attempts to consume some of the exotic dishes that sometimes get served up to us on our travels.
Whatever, beside that offer of promotion, I had thought that it was just a normal day, memories and annoyance of being unexpectedly delayed at Heathrow had faded a little by then.
The only other unusual point about that morning had been the fact that I hadn’t been able to get Katie on the telephone from the airport. She always insisted that I call at home to tell her that I was safely back in the country, and that particular morning she hadn’t picked up. Assuming I’d miss timed my call and she was in the loo, shower or something, or even out watering the garden, I’d hung up thinking I’d try again a little later.
“Still no answer from your home phone and according to the girl at her office, as usual Katie’s got a few days off because you’re due home.” Jean - my PA - said as she brought me a cup of coffee.
“Odd, I wonder where she is?” I commented. “You tried her mobile?”
“Yeah, several times. It must be turned off or something, as it’s going straight to voice mail.” Jean replied. “Oh, and before I forget, there’s some guy down in reception who wants to see you, personal business apparently. He informed reception quite emphatically that I definitely wouldn’t be able to handle it.” she added, sounding quite hurt.
Jean is my right hand around the office; she’s been with me for so long she seems to be able to ... kind-of read my mind at a distance. It’s like a sixth sense she has! Jean appears to know what I’m going to do before I know myself. What it boils down to is that she can handle most of the day-to-day problems that crop up in the office.
“Shit!” I exclaimed, “I hope he isn’t going to tie me up too damn long. I want to be away once I’ve checked through this mail.”
“Oh there’s nothing in the post that can’t wait until next week, Owen. Shall I have this guy sent up?”
“Yeah show him straight in will you Jean.” I replied. Jean left my office to return to her own little cubbyhole.
“Mr Owen Thomas?” The man asked, after Jean had shown him into my office.
I thought that was a strange question for him to ask, because Jean had just told him who I was, at the same time as she’d informed me that he was one Justin Blake.
“Yes, what can I do for you, Mr Blake?” I asked.
With a sort-of smirk on his face, he held out a large manila envelop for me to take. The moment I touched it he said, “Mr Thomas, you are summonsed to appear before the courts over the matter of Cartwright vs Cartwright, and also on the matter of Cartwright vs Thomas.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I demanded.
“It’s quite simple Mr Thomas. Mr Cartwright has named you as co-respondent in his divorce proceedings with his wife, and, he’s also suing you for child support and medical expenses.”
“What? Are you, nuts? What kind of crap are you talking?” I demanded again. “What the hell have I got to do with this Cartwright guy’s divorce and why the hell would he sue me for bloody child support? I’ve never heard of the man.”
It might have been the shock or it might have been that I was a little jet lagged, plus all the kerfuffle at Heathrow that morning, but I just about lost the plot completely. And looking back now, I do believe that I wasn’t far short of landing one on this pompous dick. I know that I must have been shouting at the guy - and that Jean had heard me - because Jean had re-entered my office and was standing by the door with her mouth agape. It was most probably Jean’s presence that brought me back to my senses.
“Isn’t it obvious?” the smug git smirked. “You’ve been caught with your trousers down Mr. Thomas, and what’s more there’s DNA evidence to prove it. Perhaps you should learn to keep it in your pants in future! Good morning to you.” the guy said, at the same time as he gave Jean a smirk of a smile as he walked confidently out of my office.
“What the hell was that all about?” Jean asked quietly.
“Buggered if I know!” I replied, as my temper began to return to a more moderate level; Jean’s dulcet tone of voice somehow does that to me. “We’d better take look at this lot, I suppose.”
As usual with forms, the other documents inside the envelope were written in legalese. The language, designed by the members of that cursed profession, to confuse us lesser mortals, so that they can translate them into meaning just about anything they wish them to say.
“Jean could you please ask Bernie from the legal department to nip up here? Let’s see if he can make head or tail out of this shit for me.”
Jean got straight on my internal phone. Less than ten minutes later Bernie was sat the other side of my desk, making “hem and haw” noises as he perused each page of the documents before him. Jean, having poured out three cups of coffee, was sitting alongside me.
“Hmm well,” Bernie finally said, looking up after taking a swig from the coffee that Jean had poured for him. “Hey shit, you have better coffee up here than we have downstairs.”
“That’s because I pay for it out of my own pocket Bernie, now get on with it!” I demanded.
“Oh this lot. Well it seems that your girlfriend’s hubby has found out about you’re little affair. He’s also claiming that you’re the father of her three-month-old child, and that you should reimburse him for all the hospitalisation and nursing costs he’s encountered. Oh, and his wife’s claiming maintenance on the kid until she’s twenty-one or leaves home on a permanent basis, whichever comes first.” Bernie said with a grin on his face. “Hmm, by the way, that seems to include all schooling and college education costs as well. This could prove very expensive for you, Owen!”
“For Chrissakes Bernie, I’ve haven’t even had a one night stand, let alone a full blown affair, since well before I got married. What kind of shit is this?” I blustered angrily.
“How long have you been married, now?” Bernie mused.
“You should bloody-well know; you were at the bleeding wedding!” I replied more than a little angrily because of the casual way Bernie appeared to be taking things.
“Yeah, I was wasn’t I? But how long ago was that though?”
“Jesus, seven years come August!” Jean informed both of us.
I’d generally come to rely on Jean for all that sort technical and marriage type knowledge. You know, anniversaries, Katie’s birthdays and the like.
“Hmm...” Bernie said again, “Well, you could say Owen, that puts you out of the frame then doesn’t it. Assuming you’re telling me the truth that is. But from reading this little lot, they seem pretty sure of their facts.”
“Bernie!” I said, even more angrily.
“All right, all right, I believe you. But some of these buggers here, like to play Casanova when they are away on company trips you know?” Bernie pointed out.
I was well aware that some of my colleagues played fast and loose, when they were away from home, but no one on my little team would dare to behave like that. Well, that’s excepting for Ralph and Shirley, but that was only with each other, and they were at that time engaged to be married. Although their engagement - for some completely inexplicable reason that I couldn’t understand - was supposed to be a secret from most folks within the company.
“Well, I’m not one of them!” I shot back at him angrily.
“Okay, okay. ‘nough said on that one!” Bernie went on, but with that disbelieving tone to his voice, which all solicitors seem to cultivate.
You know, it’s like only people from their particular professional calling who can ever be trusted to tell the truth.
“But if that is the case, then it looks like there’s been an almighty cock-up somewhere along the line.” Bernie added “And somebody’s really going to be in deep doo-doos over this one! Are you completely sure Owen?”
“Bernie!” I almost yelled at him.
Somewhat surprisingly Bernie grinned at my anger. You know, I think I could see the pound-signs lighting-up Bernie’s eyes! Come on, you all know by now how the legal mind works! Well if you don’t, then you should do!
“Well in these papers,” Bernie went on, “they claim that they have DNA evidence that you are the father of this little girl.”
“Well they’ve buggered things up big time then haven’t they! Because I haven’t had an affair with anyone and I haven’t got any children ... Yet! Of that I can assure you. And ... when I do have a child ... it will be with my wife Kate.”
A rather large grin came over Bernie’s face. “Well then Owen, you need to get a good solicitor, and be sharp about it. I’d say this is going to be far bigger than anything that we can handle on the side for you here in-house. I think my cousin Jenny should be able to sort this little lot out quite nicely for you. You’d better go see her pronto.” Bernie suggested, still smiling as he picked up my telephone.
I think that’s when I realised why Bernie was not in private practice as a solicitor. He never could seem to take life seriously enough and thought just about anything nasty that happened to others – in the legal line - was a real hoot.
A little over twenty minutes later I was leaving my office for an almost immediate appointment with Jennifer Rose. As I did so Jean informed me that she still couldn’t get in touch with Katie
“I don’t like the look of this Owen. Do you think that Katie has heard about this bloody mess?” She asked.
“I ruddy-well hope not, she’ll go bleeding ballistic. Christ it’s going to be bad enough when I try to explain it to her myself.” I replied. “Keep trying and call me on my mobile when you find her will you? God knows how long I’m going to be caught up with Bernie’s cousin.”
It took me about half an hour to get to Jennifer Rose’s office. Much like Bernie, she also sat and hemmed and hawed over the documents for what seemed like an inordinate period of time.
“Well Mr Thomas, are you completely sure that you’ve never had a liaison of any sort with this Delia Cartwright woman?” She asked, finally looking up from the papers.
“Mrs Rose, I’ve never heard of the woman in my life before, and I’ve never had a liaison with anyone since well before I got engaged to my wife!”
Jennifer Rose obviously picked up on the angry -- if not intentionally directed at her -- tone of my voice.
“Please don’t get annoyed with me Mr Thomas, I have to ask you these questions. The inexplicable factor here, are these DNA tests. If what you say is true, someone has made a rather large faux pas somewhere along the line.” -- “Tell me Mr Thomas, would you object to having a test done for comparison? That should shoot the buggers right out of the sky.”
“Of course not. Hey, what’s the odds on suing the arse off this Cartwright guy, over these false accusations.”
Jenny Rose’s face suddenly broke into a smile. Up until that moment -- unlike her cousin Bernie -- I hadn’t thought the woman knew how. Maybe her doubts about me had been put to rest when I had had the confidence in my innocence to mentioned suing Cartwright. Or maybe like her cousin Bernie, it was because she had sensed the pound signs.
“That depends on who the Cartwright’s have made these accusations to, Mr Thomas. If they have made the claims publicly, we could try for slander or defamation of character charges. I’m not sure how much we could go for though; that depends on the circumstances in each individual case. We have to prove that these accusations are unfounded and have caused significant injury to your life, or good reputation first; and even then British courts aren’t exactly generous.” After perusing the documents for a little longer a wry smile came on Jenny Roses face. “On the other hand, under the right circumstances, the American legal system, on occasion, can take a different view of things. It’s the juries over there who I believe advise the presiding Judge, and often accept the financial compensation suggested by the injured parties representatives. We’ll have to take a close look into exactly who this Cartwright fellow has made these accusations too.”
“I will get in touch with Mr Cartwright’s solicitor today and make the relevant hints. It could be that they drop all this nonsense completely if they believe that we are so sure of ourselves that you’re willing to immediately issue lawsuits for compensation.” Jenny said, still smiling.
Then she picked up her telephone with one hand to call the clinic and make an appointment for me; whilst she made notes and wrote the clinics address out for me with her other hand. What you might call multi tasking!
“Now Mr Thomas, I’d like you to get along to this clinic as soon as you can. You’ll need a letter that my secretary will give you and unquestionable proof of your identity. Your passport, and photo driving licence should suffice at this time. Although if this lot goes before a court, the Judge will possibly require you to have yet a further test; it’s a kind of best of three, when these tests get challenged in court, you know.”
Having just returned from abroad, I had the required proof of identity with me already, so I went directly from Jenny’s office to the clinic for the DNA swab to be taken. It didn’t take more than a couple of moments for them to take the swab; it took longer to do the paperwork involved actually, and they took police mug-shot type photographs of me as well. Plus, details and pictures of my distinguishing features. Rather embarrassing experience for me because the photographer turned out to be a quite charming young lady.
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